


Touch, I remember touch

by run run whithertits (whithertits)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Sam 'Boy King of Hell' Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whithertits/pseuds/run%20run%20whithertits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is the Boy King, and like any boy, he likes to show off his toys. He does not like to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch, I remember touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lylithj2](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lylithj2).



Hell turns out to be a bit of a stereotype. Mountains of bones, endless rows of racks where souls torture and scream, interspersed with their demon handlers; it's everything Sam imagined it would be ( _because_ he imagined it to be). Dean watches the racks with a keen eye whenever Sam lets him, horrified or eager depending on his mood and Sam's. Dean left a part of himself on the rack when Sam came for him-- it's fitting, because Sam has carved out every part himself that would have kept them apart. Their missing pieces match.

Dean had shown him where Alistair kept the pieces of Dean he'd cut off, ripped out and preserved for later. Dean insisted the jerky tasted perfectly good, but Sam had destroyed it rather than leaving parts of Dean lying around where anyone could find it, eat it, _touch what's his_. He'd burnt every part of Alistair away he could find because he didn't like the reminder that Alistair, that _anyone_ , had ever had Dean but him.

Sam doesn't like to share. That's what makes this so hard.

Dean is spread out in the center of the amphitheatre, bare for all of Hell to see. He's curled forward in a fetal position, pointed toward Sam with his ass presented to the hoard. The demons have all come to watch, the souls they tortured abandoned so the constant wailing in the air takes on a lonely, bitter edge. 

It suits Sam's mood. Hell always does. 

Dean's hips undulate as Sam skims his powers over and through his brother's body, the depression of skin barely perceptible. Sam wants to hear the panting, desperate hitch of Dean's breathe and so he can; the sounds of Dean's desperation fill the entire amphitheatre, as loud as a scream. The acoustics here are shaped with Sam's will.

Sam keeps his focus split between Dean and the hoard; with one train of thought he wraps his power around the tip of Dean's cock and starts jerking it, just the way he knows Dean likes. Precome drips through Sam's insubstantial grip to pool beneath Dean on the floor. The part of his mind not focused on Dean watches the crowd, waiting. His grip doesn't waver as one of the watching demons takes a half-step forward, consumed with selfish want.

It takes less than a thought to burn the black-eyed traitor out of the universe.

Dean gasps at the flare of Sam's power behind him, his back arching past the point of pain to present himself more fully, and simultaneously raises his face to Sam's so that Sam can see the devotion there. It soothes the anger clawing through Sam's belly, lets him relax back into his throne and hone his focus back on Dean. There's a black smear on the floor where the low-level demon once stood, and Sam smiles at it as he thumbs at Dean's slit with his power and then spreads Dean's ass cheeks so that his hole is perfectly visible to the crowd as Sam spears it with a thought.

Sam knows what Dean looks like, spread out, open, his hole fucked out or getting fucked. There's no better sight on any of the plains of existence-- he knows from experience. He pushes his power deeper into Dean, a vague phallus, and thickens his power so Dean's hole gapes wider, and is pleased that the Hoard doesn't move. Doesn't dare to want what is his.

"Good," Sam says, voice soft. It fills the amphitheatre like a shout and the souls in the distance cry out in pleasure at the sound, a brief wail that falls back into the tedium of pain almost instantly. Sam presses on Dean's prostate with the phallus and from deeper, within Dean's body itself, and watches Dean shudder his way to orgasm as all of Hell's legions watch, his head bowed down in supplication.

The show is over. The demons disperse. 

Sam rises from his throne and walks down the steps until the dark-skin leather ( _Gordon, he did more than want, he tried to **take**_ ) of his boots makes contact with Dean's fingertips.

Dean struggles onto his hands and knees; his head hangs heavy between the strong line of his shoulders, but he drags it up to meet Sam's gaze. His skin is flush with orgasm, the green of his eyes bright and shining. (They're green, still, because Sam wants them that way-- maybe they would still be green without him, but Sam isn't willing to take that risk.)

Sam unbuttons his pants and pulls his cock free; he's hard, power and anger manifesting as lust, always, with Dean in front of him.

Dean tips forward and suckles the head into his mouth; Sam smiles, alone with his brother in the amphitheatre. No one will watch. Not when Sam doesn't want them to.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Daft Punk's _Touch_.


End file.
